


Here and now

by FancifulRivers



Series: The ties you severed [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Chara Has Their Own Body, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Past Poisoning, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Non-Binary Chara, Non-Binary Frisk, Nonverbal Communication, Poisoning, Post-Undertale Soulless Pacifist Route, Queerplatonic Relationships, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-04-14 12:24:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14135991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancifulRivers/pseuds/FancifulRivers
Summary: Frisk broke the barrier and your determination brought you back to life.You'd think you'd be thrilled, but you'd rather live in the underground and never come back out.You just wish that Frisk would let you.





	1. Chapter 1

"I'll be fine," you say again. Frisk doesn't look convinced. Mom- Toriel only let them come back to retrieve Flowey, and you know they don't have long before someone's going to come searching. You don't want anyone to find  _you_.

Of course, only a few people would even  _recognize_ you, but those are the people you especially don't want to find out that you're alive again. Or...sentient. You don't know how to describe what's happened to you. You aren't bones. You aren't a rotting corpse (thank fuck, you worried about it when you saw Frisk's shocked face and realized that you no longer shared their head). But you  _were_ dead. So what does this make you now?

You shake your head a little. It doesn't matter. Metaphysical bullshit aside, Mom and Dad have a new kid to take care of, and you'd only be in the way. Frisk's good. Frisk deserves it. You- you never did.

_I don't want to leave you alone,_ Frisk tells you.

"Look, I've got a phone, right?" You say, lifting up the shitty flip phone Frisk had thrust into your hands moments before. "If something comes up, I'll text you or something. It'll be fine."

Frisk looks dubious, but they sign  _okay_ anyway.

_See you in a couple days,_ Frisk says. Their shoulders are set in that stubborn slant that tells you that you don't have a chance in hell of changing their mind.

"Okay," you say reluctantly. Frisk smiles and skips up to hug you. You hate physical touch, but Frisk's touch is different. It always has been. You thought only the Dreemurrs would ever have that effect on you.

Frisk blows you a goodbye kiss and slowly walks away, receding into the distance. You sit down, right on the ground, heedless of the dirt.

You thought you'd appreciate being alone, but all you feel is empty.

* * *

 

"I hate you," you tell the skeleton facing you almost conversationally. Your hand is sweaty from gripping your knife so tightly, and you have to keep adjusting your grip. The dust engrained into the handle doesn't help.

"why, kiddo?" He asks, and he's mocking you, you  _know_ he is, but you can't do anything about it, not when your lungs are on fire and your arms and legs feel like wet matchsticks. Frisk's panting for breath, too. Dodging takes a lot out of them.

"You don't lie down and  _die_ already, that's why," you say, lashing out with the knife. It's a lazy move, you know it is, and you know it's going to miss, too. He easily sidesteps it and you end up falling, landing hard on your knees and wincing at the impact. 

"what's the point of all this, kid?" Sans asks. For once, he almost seems genuinely interested. You can feel Frisk's surprise.

"I don't know," you tell him. It's the truth, but it won't sound like it. "Stuff- happened. I'm a demon. What can I say." You shrug, feeling Frisk's annoyance beating at you.  _You're not a demon,_ Frisk shouts and you wince at the mental noise.

"you're not frisk, i know that much," Sans says. You stiffen, knife raised automatically in a defensive gesture.

"I'm- Chara," you say. 

"i wish i could say it's knife to meet you, but well," Sans shrugs. His eye flickers ghostly blue again. "it's not."

Before you can register what's going on, a cavalcade of bones sprouts from the floor and slams through your middle, shredding you apart like a handful of wet tissue paper. You don't even have time to call him a bastard before everything goes black.

* * *

It's lonely, being the only person in the underground. That's the first thing you discover. All of the monsters left and with them, everything that ever made living under Mt. Ebott home. You camp out in your old room, staring at the drawing on the wall and wondering why he kept it. Why he left it here. He took the sweater with him, but not the drawing. You wonder if that means anything. Probably not.

It's dusty and it's lonely, but at least you aren't out there. You don't know what would happen if you were out there. How Mom and Dad would react. How  _Sans_ would react. How the stupid humans would react because you're supposed to be dead. You can't imagine that you legally exist anymore, it's been too long. Could you pass yourself off as a monster? Would the monsters even let you? Would Frisk?

It doesn't matter anyway. You're never leaving the underground unless you have to. Like for human food or something, and even then you plan on stealing it sometime in the night, when no one can see your face. Or your freaky eyes that have always marked you as something not human, as something worthy of derision and being outcast. You don't blame them anymore. Well- that's not true. You do. So much it hurts. But you understand it anyway. Who wants to live with a freaky red-eyed demon kid? No one, that's who.

Not even a full day passes before Frisk texts you.

_I'm coming over,_ they say, and you have to laugh, sprawled out on your old, child-sized bed, hand over your eyes. Of course Frisk can't stay apart from you. You're handling it just fine (if you ignore the howling ache of loneliness that won't go away), but they've never been like you. Not really. Not where it counts.

You meet them by the entrance, slump-shouldered and wary, hands stuffed in your pockets and aching for your knife. You don't know where it is, though. Not this timeline.

_Chara!_ Frisk is exuberant and pink-cheeked, hair tousled by the wind and clothes rumpled from the walk. You cautiously look down the path, but see nothing. Not that that means much when it comes to monsters.

"You're alone, right?" You ask for clarification anyway. Frisk nods briskly.

_I told Mom I wanted to take a walk,_ they sign.  _She said it was okay as long as I got back before dark._ You snort. It's never okay with Toriel. You just hope that whoever she's sent to watch her child decides to stay outside the mountain. And isn't Sans.

"I'm fine, Frisk," you tell them. "It's been like a day."

_I wanted to see you,_ they say.  _Is that bad?_

"...No," you admit, your own face reddening. "I just- I don't want you to get in trouble. I don't want anyone to find out-"

_They won't,_ Frisk promises, eyes serious.  _I promise._

"I hope you're right," you say.

"they aren't," a voice interrupts you. "sorry, kiddo, but tori wanted me to check up on you," the voice you hoped you'd never hear again continues. You can feel panic clawing at your throat, anxiety an icy pool in your stomach.

_Sans, you should leave,_ Frisk signs in short, angry strokes. You turn around, although you desperately don't want to. His eye keeps flickering between white and blue, like he can't decide what he wants to do.

"it's chara, right?" He asks you, ignoring Frisk entirely. "you're quite a chara-cter, you know. how'd you get your own body?"

"Fuck if I know," you answer, voice brittle and too high. You can feel yourself shaking, trembling like a leaf caught in a stray breeze. Every nerve feels like it's on fire. "I'm not going to- to hurt Frisk, I'd never hurt Frisk."

Sans laughs, and the sound makes your skin crawl.

"sorry but uh, that's a little hard to believe," he says. Frisk steps forward, past you, but you can't do it anymore, you've had enough.

With a ragged gasp of distress, you whirl and bolt deeper into the dubious sanctuary of the underground, waiting every second to feel the first volley of bones slamming into your back.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for past and present suicide (attempts).
> 
> Also I had this half-written and it was great...and then my browser decided to remove all my tabs. So I hope it's still okay.

You run as far as you can without falling over, relaxing bit by bit the further you get from the entrance without dying. You're kind of surprised by that. Maybe Frisk's managed to stall him after all. If he's with Frisk, then you're not there, right? And it's not like there's anyone down here you can hurt. Not that you want to, but you know he'll never believe that. You doubt he has anything to say to a dirty brother killer, anyway. You never hurt anyone this timeline, but you don't think he cares. At some point during all the resets, he found out about you, and you think he's assumed it's all your fault since. You accept it all, no matter what Frisk says. You're the demon kid. You're the freaky one who was supposed to lie down and die already, and instead ended up trapped in another kid's body, another kid wearing a striped shirt, determination thrumming in their veins.

You're the one who's not supposed to be here anymore and you know Sans feels the same way.

You have a sudden, fierce longing to reload. You're sure that Frisk's saved recently. If Toriel had sent anyone else to check up on Frisk, it would work, too. No one else would notice. But he  _remembers_. Not perfectly, of course, but enough, and if he remembers it has anything to do with  _you_ , well...

You don't want to be around him when he does.

Your phone buzzes and you fish it out of your pocket, scowling at the screen. It's a text from Frisk. Of course it is.  _Come back, Chara. It's okay. He won't hurt you._

 _Sure he won't,_ you think, snorting as you stuff your phone back in its place.  _And if you believe that, I have a bridge to sell you._ You know you're being uncharitable. It's  _Frisk_. And you know they believe what they texted you. You can feel it- when you got your own body, a little bit of you stayed in the back of Frisk's mind and you gained a little bit of them. You can feel their sincerity.

But their sincerity doesn't mean anything when it comes to Sans, and they aren't strong enough to stop him. You know that. The only good thing is that he has to leave eventually. He can't stay at the entrance forever unless he wants to explain to Toriel why, and you know Frisk won't let him. You don't want her to know you're here and this time, Frisk couldn't out-stubborn you.

You wanted to see Frisk, though. You hate to admit it, but you felt...happy when Frisk texted you and said they were going to come over anyway. If it was just Frisk and you down here in the underground, you'd be more than content, but it's not, it's just you, and it feels horribly, achingly lonely buried deep in your middle. 

Water splashes on your collar and you're surprised to find you're crying. What do you have to cry about? You scrub your eyes impatiently with the hem of your shirt, looking around as you do. You don't recognize where you are. Good. Maybe Sans won't find you then.

You shake your head. It doesn't matter. It was stupid anyway, thinking you could ever be happy.

Then you see a flash of gold and your mouth goes dry. Phantom pains burst down your throat as you skid down the slight hill, collapsing to your knees just before you fall into them.

You'd know the small yellow flowers before you anywhere.

You're kneeling in a field of buttercups.

* * *

 

"Chara, I don't like the plan anymore," Azzy whines, tugging on his ears. His eyes are red-rimmed and he can't stop sniffling. "This- it's hurting you too much, I don't-"

"It's  _supposed_ to," you rasp out, muffling another coughing fit in cupped hands. Blood speckles your palms and you wince, wiping them off on the sheets so Azzy won't see. When you swallow, blisters burst like rotten fruit down your throat, and you white out from the pain, coming back to Azzy leaning over you, eyes huge and terrified.

"I'm fine," you say irritably, waving him away. He knows you're lying, but he steps back anyway, snout trembling. "It's fine, Azzy, I knew it was- it was going to be bad." It's a lie, but he doesn't need to know that. You never thought it could be this bad or last this long. Why won't your stupid body just give up and  _die_ already? "The plan's good, remember? It will be fine."

You start coughing again and it hurts so bad, you want to cry, but crying would hurt even more. Azzy brings a glass of water without being asked, helping you sip and holding the glass for you, since you know you'd drop it.

"I just want you to be okay," Azzy whispers, so quietly you almost don't hear him. He sounds like he's on the verge of tears again.

"I know," you say weakly. "I will be. I just-"  _Need to die,_ you think but don't say. You don't think that Azzy really understands human death. Maybe that's a good thing. If he did, he'd probably stop you. It's not like you can stop him. You're so weak now, you can't even stand up unassisted.

It doesn't matter. The plan  _will_ work. You  _will_ atone for what you've done. You'll free the monsters and it won't matter that one little demon kid had to die for it, not when you can spend forever with your brother.

Not when you deserved it all and more, anyway.

* * *

 

But you didn't save them all, did you, you think ruefully, staring mesmerized at the patch of buttercups. They look just like you remembered. Frisk did it. Frisk did it all. Oh, sure, you helped. You wanted to reset, too. It's not like you're totally useless.

But they're the kid who broke the barrier. And you? You're just a fucked up ghost kid, hanging along for the ride. You're a demon who should have died and stayed dead a long time ago.

Maybe now you have a second chance.

You reach out one tentative hand, your fingers brushing the edge of one brightly colored petal. Your skin stings with remembered pain and you drop your hand by your side as if it's on fire. Sans and Frisk are utterly forgotten as you look around, marveling at the golden profusion around you. There's just so _many_ -

Before you can stop yourself, you reach out again and pluck a flower, crushing the petals and leaves between your fingers and staring at the residue in fascination. For a moment, you can't remember if this is before or after you died. Then you wonder why you even care. Why it matters. You always wanted to die, didn't you?

You can feel Frisk's alarm in the back of your head, but it's foggy and far away, easily ignored. It doesn't matter. All that matters are the tiny buttercup fragments still nestled in your palm. You bring them to your mouth, tipping your head back as you tilt your hand. Buttercup petals fall between your lips, covering your tongue, and you fall back into the flowers, laughter bubbling from your throat as the memory of pain overwhelms you. The ghostly sensation of popping blisters fills your mouth and burns your stomach. It hurts, it's too much- much too much- but you don't care. You throw your hands out to either side, grabbing great, swooping handfuls of buttercups, anything you can scrabble loose from the dirt, and stuffing them in your mouth as fast as you can. It hurts to chew, even more to swallow, but you don't _care_ , it's like you can't control yourself until suddenly-

Ghostly blue swallows you whole, lifts you up, and you see Frisk standing there, more scared than you've ever seen them, and the comedian is staring at you like he's never seen you before.

"Chara," Frisk says, actually  _speaks,_  in a tiny, hurt voice. Only then do you come back to yourself and realize that your hands are cramped, holding clumps of buttercups, and your mouth is bleeding. You spit, drooling blood down your chin and onto your shirt.

Then you burst into tears.

"Put me _down_ -" You hiccup the order through your sobs, but Sans doesn't listen, just maneuvers you out of the field of buttercups. He's almost gentle (for him, anyway), but floating in mid air makes your skin crawl and your shoulder blades itch, like it's all a ruse so he can level the Gaster Blasters at you again, Frisk's presence be damned.

"come on, kiddo," Sans says, once you're back on stable ground. His hand finds yours and you can't put up much resistance as he unpeels your fingers and lets the crushed remnants of buttercups drop from your hands, one by one. Your hands are blistered and looking at the familiar sores makes you want to throw up.

"Why-" You start to ask, but you falter, a particularly painful coughing fit ripping through your chest. More blood sprays messily down your chin and you scrub at it with the back of one hand, recoiling at the bright red smears. They remind you of paint.

"Chara," Frisk says again. Their eyes are very wet and puffy. You hate yourself that much more, for making Frisk cry. They look like they can't handle any more talking, so your eyes automatically drop to their hands.

_We're taking you to Mom's._

And before you can protest, Sans has a grasp on you and Frisk, and the world blinks out.


	3. Chapter 3

_Demon. Demon. Demon._ The word thrums in your head in time with your heartbeat as you run, rain-soaked leaves skidding out from under your sneakers. You're almost positive no one's following you- that no one even knows you're gone- but you're not willing to take that chance. Not again. You swallow hard, remembering the time your mom dragged you out of a tree at the edge of the park. Both your legs were raw and bleeding from knees to ankles when she was done and you had to take care of it yourself when you got home.  _After_ she lectured you about bleeding on the carpet, of course. At least you'd stocked up on Neosporin the last time you shoplifted.

 _This_ time, you make sure your parents are asleep before you tiptoe out the back door, backpack stocked with essentials and your pockets full of money nicked from your mom's purse. Rain gently sprinkles your head and shoulders as you contemplate your destination. You know what the legends say. People who climb Mt. Ebott don't come back. That's exactly what you want. There's more to the legends, but you don't know if you believe them. A society of monsters, living in the mountain? How? Then again, you're a kind of monster, too, aren't you? Demons are pretty monstrous, after all. And you're definitely one of those. Your eyes are red and freaky and you can't behave right and you aren't a boy  _or_ a girl and the pastor at the little community church says that's a sin. Your mom clucks her tongue and nods, always side-eyeing you with every word until you want to kick her and kick her and kick her.

By the time you reach city limits, you've begun to run. Your lungs protest with every step, but you don't care. You're going to climb Mt. Ebott and you're going to escape your shitty family and your shitty home life and your shitty school, where it's always your fault, no matter how much other people provoke you. You're just a "troublemaker" branded with detention slips and in-school suspensions. It doesn't matter if other people start it, your teacher only cares that you finish it. It's not your fault you know how to fight dirty. You've never been allowed to play fair.

You don't know what you're going to do when you reach the top. Or if it even matters. It's not like you care if you die. You've thought about it so many times before. You even brought your knife along, a sharp silver guarantee.

In the end, it doesn't matter. There's a hole, yawning black and deep in the rain-slashed night, and you try to get around it, but your foot slips and you careen headfirst down it instead.

It's a long, long way to the bottom.

* * *

The monsters have spread out around the base of Mt. Ebott, not venturing out too far. You think it's so the humans don't totally freak out. Toriel lives in a pastel blue house with navy blue accents. You muzzily wonder if it's always been that color as Sans floats you up the front walk and Frisk holds your hand. You want to tell them to stop that, you're fine, but your tongue is thick and clumsy and doesn't want to work. Every time you swallow, you can taste blood, and it makes you want to throw up.

 _I'm sorry,_ Frisk signs. You don't know what they're apologizing for. It's not like it's their fault you decided to dine on buttercups again. Frisk runs up and knocks on the door and you hate yourself that much more, knowing the first glimpse Toriel is going to get of her long-dead human child is enveloped in blue and spattered with blood. Golden oldies from the past, right? This one should have stayed dead.

When Mom opens the door, her greeting dies on her lips and for one alarming moment, you think she's about to faint.

Then again, it's not every day she's confronted with the specter of her dead-and-buried child floating in her front yard.

 _Please let us in,_ Frisk signs, very fast.  _It's-_

"Chara," Mom whispers, filling in the blank. "How- I-" She reaches a tentative paw toward you, like she can't quite believe you're real. You smile weakly at her and cough again, more blood-flecked spit dribbling down your collar. At this rate, you're going to have to burn this sweater.

The sight of your blood shocks her into action because before you know it, you're through the door and laid out on the living room floor, an enormous boss monster kneeling beside you.

"I don't understand," Toriel murmurs, her eyes damp and full of distress. "It's the same- the same as- child, what plagues you?"

You don't want to tell her. You don't want to admit that you're the reason her real child died. Your stupid plan got Azzy killed. You put the entire Dreemurr family through so much pain, and it was all for nothing. It's all your fault and it always has been. 

But Frisk eyes you and you know that if you don't say it, they will.

"Buttercups," you husk out. Every syllable is painful. "I'm s-sorry, Mom, I- I ate buttercups, I did then t-too, and I-"

Everything spills out then, like a flood of poison, interspersed with bloody coughing fits. Frisk gives you a box of Kleenex at some point, but it doesn't do much. You don't look up as you talk, too afraid to see the condemnation in Toriel's face, the coldness as she stands up and prepares to leave you coughing out your lungs in a gutter somewhere because you don't deserve to be her child anymore. Not after all you've done.

"Chara." Her voice is gentle, but you cringe away from it anyway. "Child. I am so, so sorry."

"What?" You say in confusion. Now you look up, hesitant, peeking through your lashes to see tears streaming down her face. Frisk is just as red and puffy-eyed beside her, and even Sans (you forgot about him for a moment) looks uncomfortable, leaning against the doorframe. "But you- you didn't do anything, it was-"

"We put so much pressure on you," Toriel says softly, tucking an unruly strand of hair behind your ear. "We never should have. It was not  _your_ responsibility to free us, my child. You were- you still are- a child."

You open your mouth to protest that (you're not  _that_ young), but she continues.

"I am sorry for the way that your father and I failed you," she whispers. "Failed you and Asriel both."

"It was me," you whisper an objection. "I'm the one- he'd still be alive if-"

"Chara, my son made his own choices," Mom says, and the note of warning in her voice stops you cold. "He could have told me or your father what was going on. I- I understand why he did not, but don't put that on yourself." 

You smile weakly, wondering if Flowey can hear this from wherever he is, if he can even understand, and fall into another coughing fit, harsher than the last.

"You need medical assistance," Toriel says. "More than I can give you."

"What?" Your eyes widen in alarm. She can't mean-

But judging by the phone in one paw, she does.

 

 

* * *

As you settle into your new bed, side by side with the little goat monster who stumbled across you calling for help, you can't help but marvel that you were wrong and the legends  _are_ right. There  _are_ monsters living under Mt. Ebott, but they aren't anything like the storybooks suggest. Asriel is as short as you are, and he looks like a goat more than anything. He has red eyes like you and a striped sweater like you and he tugs on his ears when he's nervous. His parents are  _huge_ but they seem nice enough. They have red eyes, too, and Toriel knits you your own sweater and Asgore makes you goldenflower tea. You never used to like tea before, but when he makes it, it actually tastes good.

It's like tripping headfirst into a fairy tale, but despite living in the world of monsters- literally- you can't help but think the only villain of the story is you. You're the demon child. You're the one who was sent to plague your parents. You're the troublemaker, the disgrace, the delinquent. You're the one who can't just lie down and accept it, who has to fight back, even when bruises purple your skin like a patchwork quilt and you nearly lose a tooth. You're the bad one, you're born bad, and you think maybe all humans are. You've never met one who wasn't.

But the monsters aren't like that at all. The monsters are kind to you. To everyone they meet, apparently, if they can be nice to someone like you. You know they must have conflicts and stuff, too, because no one's nice  _all_ the time, but still. They gave you half of Azzy's room. You have your own bed. You have your own striped sweater, just like his. You have a golden locket on a chain that matches the one looped loosely around his neck, because he gave it to you and he wants to be friends. Better than friends.

It's like you're part of their family and you know  _that_ can't be true. Can never be true. You tripped and fell into their life and it would be better for everyone, especially yourself, if the fall had just killed you. You know that. 

But you can't help but hope, just a little, that maybe you can pretend, if only for a little while.

"Chara?" Toriel asks. "Would you like to choose the story tonight?" A blush of happiness warms your face for a moment before you turn your head away and nod.

You know it won't last but oh, how you want to get used to it.

 

 

* * *

It's not as bad as you feared.

You don't have to go to a human hospital, like you thought you would. You  _do_ have to go to the next best thing, though. It's a recently started monster/human venture that some of Mom's monster friends have already set up with some new human friends. It's like a walk-in clinic, but with some hospital features in the back. You're apparently their worst case so far and it makes your face burn with humiliation. At least Mom's carrying you this time, not the stupid comedian.

Sans is still there, though, and you can't summon the strength to tell him to go away. You don't want him here, but you have a feeling that he doesn't care what you want. Like you can dust anyone when you can't stop coughing up blood ( _how_ has it hit you so fast this time, it felt like eons the first go-round), and you feel as weak as a piece of soggy cardboard.

You don't want Frisk to see you like this, either. It's too much like Azzy for comfort, but you know that Frisk won't leave. Frisk's like a velcro strap the way they're glued to Mom's side. They're mostly nonverbal at the best of times, but you can tell their voice has completely departed them now, and you feel like shit because of it. It's one more thing to add to the pile of things that's your fault.

The nurse comes into your room, a bright, plastic smile on her face. Her name badge tells you that her name is Jenni.

"I'll just put your IV in now, all right?" She says, already pulling out her supplies. You want to tell her that no, it is not all right, fuck off and die (or at the very least, you want to mention your needle phobia), but all you can do is cough.

The needle hurts, but not as much as your throat. You still refuse to look at it or the gobs of tape affixing it to your arm, or the IV pole now wheeled up by your bed. Mom refuses to let go of you, no matter what Jenni says, and you silently appreciate it. Frisk curls up in a chair next to the side of the bed, and you think Sans just sat down on the floor since you can't see him. You prefer it that way.

"Buttercup poisoning?" You hear out in the hall, and your face burns hotter. You don't want anyone else to know, but you don't get a choice. Mom made that more than clear on the way here. She says they don't need to know about how you died, but they do need to know that you decided to chow down on a handful of buttercups. You don't know how to explain that yes, you did know what you were doing and yes, you did know they're poisonous.

 _It will be okay,_ Frisk signs, rocking back and forth in their plastic chair. You don't know who they're trying to reassure more, themself or you.

You have to admit it helps, though.

 


	4. Chapter 4

"I don't- I can't find what's wrong-"

You keep very still, trying to pretend that the Dreemurrs' conversation hasn't woken you up. Across the room, you can hear Azzy's soft snores. He's finally asleep. You know it took him a while. It always does these days. It's hard on him, watching you kill yourself. Helping you do it. The familiar stab of guilt is almost as harsh as the pain from the poisoning.

"You are doing your best," you hear Asgore reassure your mother, in his comforting, low rumble. They're just outside the door, so you presume that your mom left to have her breakdown in as much privacy as she feels safe claiming, hoping you and Azzy won't hear. It's too bad you fucked that up, too.

You hate what you're doing to her. To everyone. Sometimes you want to take Azzy's advice and tell them what you've done. Sometimes you want to stop it. Reverse it. But you can't do that, not when you're so close. You never expected buttercup poisoning to take so long, but you knew it would be painful. You accept that. It's what you deserve after what you did to Asgore. You never meant to make him sick. It was supposed to be a joke. Just a stupid, harmless joke and then he could laugh with you and Azzy. But that didn't happen. And you don't think eating buttercups is a funny ha ha joke to anyone but you now.

A tickle erupts in your throat, agitating the pulpy blisters there. You try to muffle the cough in your pajama sleeve, but it bursts forth anyway, harsh and wet with blood. The muffled conversation ends at once and the door clicks open. Toriel tiptoes in, moving as quietly as she can, until she can brush your hair back from your sweaty, reddened cheeks and give you a glass of water.

It makes you want to die.

* * *

 Despite how rough the buttercup poisoning has been on you this go-round, you only spend three days in the clinic's back rooms, the ones reserved for the  _real_ sick patients. Mom convinces them to let you leave early, released into her custody. You think that's the only reason they agree because you know at least one doctor thinks you're a 'danger to yourself' and you can practically _see_ the fucking comedian swallow the urge to speak up and tell them you're a danger to everyone else. It makes you contemplate how fast it would take to rip out your IV needle and dust him. Just him.

...No, Frisk will just reset. And you'll prove his point. Damn it.

Jenni comes in to talk to you about discharge and it makes you stiffen up. You don't like her. Her smile hides more secrets than you do and she looks so fake, you keep getting the urge to call her Barbie. It doesn't help that she keeps misgendering you and acting like it's just an "accident." You know it's not.

"So she needs to rest, of course," Jenni tells Toriel and your hands clench, nails digging into your palms, because you are tired, you are  _so_ tired, everyone there has reminded her of what your pronouns are (even  _Sans_ , to your eternal disquiet).

"It's they," you interrupt, speaking as loudly as you dare with your ravaged throat. "They. T-h-e-y. I use  _they_ pronouns. You  _know_ that. Or you should if you're capable of keeping a single thought in your brain that's  _not_ transphobic. Or are you just that fucking stupid be-"

"Chara," Mom says and you stop, trying to ignore the bitter pain flooding your throat. "Jenni, Chara's phrasing is- not what I would have said, but they're right. They do use they/them pronouns and it's unacceptable to me for you to misgender my child. Please get your supervisor."

Jenni's throat works a few time, her face going very pink. Then she whirls, nearly flouncing out the door before slamming it so hard, it rattles in its hinges. You relax against your pillows, feeling a hundred times better with her gone.

"Sorry, Mom," you whisper, shame leaking into your voice. "I just-"

"I understand, my child," Mom tells you, smoothing back some of your sweat-dampened hair from your forehead. "I am sorry that I did not speak up sooner. I should have, but I hoped-"

"not your fault, tori," Sans speaks up, his unexpected interjection making you jump. You try to pretend you didn't, hoping he didn't notice, but pinpoint white pupils tell you that's futile.

"I hate her," you say, soft but insistent, and Mom doesn't tell you that you don't really mean that, or that you shouldn't say things like that. She just holds you the best she can.

 _At least you get to come home today!_ Frisk signs, trying to cheer you up. You can't deny the warmth that blossoms in your chest at the thought. Like you have a home anymore. Like you deserve a home with Toriel again.

But you know you don't.

* * *

"Chara?" Asriel asks, looking up from his coloring. "What are humans like?"

You pause, fingers stilling on the red crayon you've been using to industriously scribble in the unruly mop of your hair. It's probably dumb to draw yourself with the Dreemurr family like you're part of them, but Azzy said that he's drawing a picture of you two together, so you figure the least you can do is return the favor. Besides, yours will come out better anyway.

He's asked you a lot of questions about what it's like up on the surface and you've always done your best to answer him, acutely aware that the chances he'll ever see any of it himself are slim. You don't know how to answer  _this_ , though. All the humans in your town are shit and you aren't much better. If anything, you're probably worse. You chew on your bottom lip in thought, so hard you nearly draw blood.

"Bad," you finally say. "Monsters are  _way_ better."

"Yeah, we are," Azzy says, looking way too pleased with himself. You knock your shoulder against his in a gentle shove. He bleats once in surprise, then dissolves into laughter. After a moment, you can't help but join him.

"I need the red crayon," he tells you, once he's calmed down. You give him a  _look_ , staring down your nose like you imagine a king would. (Although Asgore never looks that way at people, so maybe it's a human thing.)

"In a minute," you tell him loftily. "I'm not done yet."

"But  _Chara_..."

* * *

Mom gives you the guest room, but you promptly end up in Frisk's, curling up on the floor and pretending you're not still in so much pain, you could cry. She tries to bargain with you, but you won't budge. Finally she relents and when you crack one eye open, you see that she's moved another bed in (where did that come from, anyway? It's not the one from the guest bedroom) and the set-up is so reminiscent of your old life with the Dreemurrs, your eyes fill up with tears and you have to scrub them away with your sleeve before anyone notices. You're pretty sure Frisk did anyway, but they're tactful enough not to say anything.

"You need to rest, my child," Mom tells you firmly, plucking you up from the carpet and depositing you in your new bed. The sheets are soft and smell vaguely of lavender. "The doctor said you should rest and I agree."

"Fine," you mumble, staring down at the comforter. It's a soft shade of blue, dappled with an intricate tracery of mint-colored leaves. It's prettier than you expected.

 _I'll stay with you_ , Frisk decides, plopping down on their own bed. Toriel shakes her head.

"You need lunch first, Frisk," Toriel says. "I'll bring a tray in for you, Chara."

"But why can't I-" You start to protest, but Mom's already out the door, Frisk in tow. Frisk sends you an apologetic look over their shoulder. You slump, wishing you could kick something. Instead, you scowl as fiercely as you can at the wall.

"so." You startle, watching the skeleton saunter through the door, hands stuffed in his pockets. "tori sent me to keep an eye on you," he explains, pointing one bony finger at one of his eye sockets. You know it's supposed to be a shitty pun, but you can't help the shiver down your spine. You don't need a baby-sitter. Especially not  _him_. Doesn't she know he's more likely to Gaster Blaster you than keep you safe? 

...Oh. You shiver again. No. She wouldn't know that. She doesn't know  _anything_ about that timeline and you intend to keep it that way. You couldn't bear if she- Well, you couldn't bear it, that's all.

"Go away," you say, although you know he won't listen. Sure enough, he plunks himself down into Frisk's beanbag chair and just...stares at you. You wish it was easier to read meaning into a skeleton's face.

"What?" You finally snap because you  _hate_ it when people stare at you, you always have. For a moment,  _Demon_ echoes in the back of your mind.

"i don't get you, kid," he says. "i know who you are. you're the other soul. when frisk-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," you interrupt him. "Kids like me should burn in hell, I'm the demon that comes when you call its name, yadda yadda. Why do you _care_?"

He leans forward, wisps of etheral blue emanating from his eye, and you freeze.

"you know why i care," he says in a soft, vehement voice. "i care about paps and tori and everyone else not getting dusted again."

"We reset for a reason," you inform him, tone brittle. "It wasn't just _Frisk's_ decision. And it wasn't just _mine_ to-" You mimic a slashing motion in the air. You think he looks surprised, but it's hard to tell. At least the blue fades away.

"so how did you-" He motions at your body. You shrug.

"Fuck if I know," you say, coughing into your sleeve. A glass of water floats over to you, and you blink in surprise. "Thank you," you say cautiously and sip at it. It soothes your throat. "After we fought As- Flowey, I just-" You gesture down at yourself. "Ended up out of Frisk's body and back in my own. Only not rotting anymore."

"huh," Sans says, mulling your words over. "so what stops you from going all-" He makes his own slashing motion through the air and you glare at him.

"Were you not listening at all?" You snap. "We reset for a reason. We chose mercy the entire time for a reason. I'm not jeopardizing that. Besides, aren't you the one who said even the worst people can change? Am I just that fucking evil it doesn't apply or-"

"no, that's not what i meant," Sans tries to backpedal, but you're not having it. You know he still thinks you're an evil murder child, but it still hurts. It's not that you like him or anything, you just-

Can't you have _somewhere_ where people don't think you're a demon?

You squeeze your eyes shut, blindly feeling for the nightstand and putting your water there. You can hear Mom and Frisk in the other room. Frisk feels happy in the back of your mind.

At least they can be happy.

And that's something you can never be.


	5. Chapter 5

You nearly stagger into the judgment hall for the first time (the _only_ time if you have your way), fingers clenched around the handle of your knife. Dust dogs your every step, clogging your lungs. Your throat is raw, burning every time you swallow. It reminds you of buttercups.

The skeleton stands in front of you, ready to judge you. Between his fingers, he keeps idly flipping a bone like this is just another day. Like you don't stand before him, wearing the dust of everyone he knows. Frisk dully wonders if he'll notice that their body has two souls, not one. You doubt it. Everyone sees what they want to see. Sans isn't any different.

"it's a beautiful day outside," he says, and the bone between his fingers winks out of existence. Blue and yellow sparks to life in one eye socket, making you feel queasy when you look at it. "birds are singing. flowers are blooming. on days like these, kids like you...should be burning in hell."

You take a step forward. Before you even understand what's happened, a flurry of bones slam through your stomach hard and you crumple to the floor, blood spilling down your front in a flood. Your soul cracks in half before your unbelieving eyes just before Frisk re-loads the save and you re-appear just outside the judgment hall.

"That  _bastard_ ," you say out loud, coughing as more dust infiltrates your throat. You can feel Frisk's angry agreement, burning in your shared stomach. He moved out of turn. You didn't know anyone could  _do_ that.

 _We'll dodge next time,_ Frisk tells you patiently.  _Let me do it. I'm better at dodging._

 _Yeah, because it's your body,_ you snipe, but it's a weak jab and you both know it.

Frisk marches back into the hall, fingers wrapped around the knife handle so tight it hurts, determination flaring stronger than ever.

* * *

You don't know how you feel about Sans anymore. He's left you alone after that uneasy conversation in your room right after you came home. You know he's still watching you, though. There's no way he's going to let someone like  _you_ roam free. Not after what you've done.

Like you're even allowed to roam anywhere in the first place. Frisk brought Flowey's pot into your room, giving him a new spot on the windowsill, and Mom asked him to help keep an eye on you, too. You know he only does it because he thinks it's funny you get mad. The first time you got out of bed to go piss by yourself, Flowey started making Kill Bill siren noises as loudly as he could, making Mom burst into the room like the place had gone up in flames. He laughed his ass off when you fell back on the bed, face burning with humiliation. Your only consolation was that Mom told him off and said he has to use his cell phone to call her instead.

"I'm fine, you know," you tell Frisk for what feels like the millionth time, pushing yourself into a sitting position. Your hands are starting to ache again and you don't want to admit it because they'll tell Mom. And Mom will probably want you to take medicine. Even if it's monster meds, you don't want to do that. You don't  _like_ medication. It reminds you too much of- Well, that's a story for another timeline. But you can't explain that to Mom without opening up yet  _another_ can of worms and you really don't want to explain just how many times you've tried to die in your life. Then she really  _will_ never let you out of her sight (which is totally unfair, considering what you know about Frisk). You don't think Frisk would appreciate you airing their dirty laundry, though, so you keep your mouth shut.

 _You're not fine,_ Frisk signs, face set in the stubborn lines you remember from the underground.  _You're in pain_.

"I'm fine enough to  _sit up_ ," you say, and you can't stop the annoyance that seeps into your tone. For fuck's sake, you were allowed to sit up even when all your internal organs were shutting down and you were on a rapid water slide to death. Mom  _encouraged_ it then, to prevent bed sores. You don't know what those are, but you don't want to find out.

Frisk looks dubious.

"Ask Mom," you suggest and when they run out of the room to do just that, you take a hesitant look around. Flowey's on the windowsill, face down and absorbed in his Gameboy. As you tentatively slide one leg out of bed, he speaks up without even looking at you.

"If you do something stupid, you're gonna be in trouble," he sing-songs. You stick your tongue out at him.

"I have to pee," you lie. A snort escapes from his direction, but he doesn't yell or anything, so you count it as a victory.

You tiptoe down the hallway, hearing Mom's soft voice, probably in response to Frisk. You bypass the bathroom, heading straight for the back door and easing it open. It's warm outside and the sunlight soaks into you as you stumble down the back steps and sit down on the last one, feeling the cement warm and rough beneath your hands. You can smell flowers in the air (thankfully no buttercups), and there's a bird chirping somewhere.

Maybe it's the birdsong that makes you startle so badly when Sans teleports in front of you.

* * *

You like everything about your new home, but you like the garden the best.

It's hard to explain to the Dreemurrs. You weren't really allowed outside on the surface. It's not like your parents trusted you to play by yourself (when you weren't being punished for something bullshit, that is), and it's not like there was much to do in your shitty neighborhood anyway. At school, well, more of the same. You never really got recess. They were all taken up by detentions- mostly for shit other people started. You acted like you didn't care, but you know you did.

But Asgore and Toriel don't mind if you play outside. They  _encourage_ it. They tell you and Azzy that it's good for you to get some fresh air and not feel confined to the house (although considering the house is built for Boss Monster proportions, it's not like you ever feel cramped).

Then Azzy shows you Asgore's garden and you feel almost...awed. Everywhere is green and there are so _many_ flowers. You're afraid to take a single step, just in case you crush one beneath your sneakers. Azzy doesn't care, he just grabs you by the hand (after ascertaining that you don't mind being touched today) and fearlessly tows you deeper into the softly rustling rows of petals and leaves.

"These are my favorites," Asriel confides in you, guiding you to a sitting position in front of golden flowers. They're beautiful and you reach a finger out, tentatively brushing one of the petals and relaxing minutely when nothing bad happens.

"It's okay, Chara," Azzy says, giggling a little. "They're not gonna shrivel up and die."

"I know that, dweeb," you reply, but it's a little sharper than you meant it because deep down, you're afraid that your touch  _will_ make everything die. That you aren't capable of love and warmth and all these things the monsters offer so freely.

All  _you_ know is pain. And pain has no place here.

Just like you.

* * *

"you shouldn't be out here, kiddo," Sans says. He doesn't sound angry, but you scowl at him anyway, drawing your knees up defensively. Why does  _he_ care?  _He's_ not your mom and he can stop fucking acting like it.

"I don't care," you say. He sits down next to you. From the corner of your eye, you can see the ridiculous pink tufts on his slippers. "Go away," you demand. He ignores you, pulling a bottle of ketchup from the inside of his jacket and taking a swig. Your nose crinkles in disgust. Why does he  _do_ that? The thought briefly crosses your mind-  _would he bleed ketchup or dust?_ \- and you shiver hard, scrubbing your hands on your pajama pants. He doesn't say anything and you're reluctantly grateful.

"you should go back to bed," he advises. You shake your head, feeling the choppy ends of your hair against your neck.

"I'm sick of bed," you grumble. "There's nothing to  _do_ there."

"still," Sans says, and he won't  _leave_ , and you think it's probably (definitely) stupidity that makes you lean in, lowering your voice so only he can hear you.

"What, Sans?" You ask. "Are you trying to make friends or something? You want to be friends with a  _dirty brother killer_?"

He whips around, eye full of soul blue and bones dancing on his fingertips, and you fall backwards, skinning your palms on the grit of the steps, your heart thumping in your chest like a frightened rabbit's. He looks horrified when you push yourself back up, examining your new wounds. The blue dissipates into nothing.

"kid, i-" He vanishes. You blink. Well, that's one way to get rid of him, although you could have done without the terror still coursing through your veins. Damn it, you're  _not_ scared of him, you're not, it's just-

Well, it's a beautiful day outside, you can still hear the bird chirping, and a kid like you-

You know how the saying goes.

He's back before you can process what's happened, holding the first aid kit out like a peace offering. You scowl at him as fiercely as you can, but he ignores it, gently tugging your hand his way so he can clean the scrapes. It stings like a bitch and you bite your tongue to avoid showing it. He affixes several smiley-face band-aids across one hand, then starts work on the next.

"Why are you doing this?" You blurt out before you can stop yourself. He looks up, pinpoint white pupils fixating on you, and you wish again it was easier to read emotions on bones.

"it's my fault you hurt yourself," he states, like that actually  _means_ anything. He's  _killed_ you more times than you can count, why does he care if you get a boo boo? Your confusion must show on your face because he stops for a moment and sighs. "look- kid- i overreacted, okay? i know you were bonely trying to push my buttons. it wasn't okay to scare you." He shrugs. "so i'm sorry." He finishes bandaging your other hand while you just stare at him.

"That makes no sense," you finally say, turning your head and coughing into your shirt. You can feel the wheeze creeping in, your old, familiar asthma returning to haunt you. Sans produces your inhaler from his pocket.

"thought you'd need it," he says when you stare at him, dumbfounded. "and hey, listen. i talked to tori. you can rest in the living room if you want. watch tv. flowey and frisk, too. sound good?"

Hesitantly, you nod.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

"This is you," you say, pointing to the vaguely goat-shaped green crayon outline on your paper. Azzy peers over your shoulder, his breath noisy in your ear. You scribble in the outline with yellow, almost all the way to the top. "And this is your dweeb level. It's unusually high for a monster your size."

"Hey!" Azzy protests as you double over laughing, the crayon falling from your grasp. " _Charaaaaa_! That's not fair! I am  _not_ a dweeb!"

"You literally want to grow up to be the God of Hyperdeath," you point out between giggles. He throws his paws up over his face and you can tell he's blushing. "That's like...premium dweeb."

"Is not," he says, sulking. "Just because I have ambitions-"

"To be the ultimate god of dweebness," you interrupt.

" _Chara_ ," Azzy bleats, face scrunched up like he's going to cry. You relent, sighing heavily as you turn the paper over and hunt for the green crayon. It's fallen on Azzy's side, slightly smudging his own paper where he's been coloring the God of Hyperdeath (again). You draw another goat outline on your paper and scribble it in with blue, all the way to the top of his horns.

"Hey," you say, interrupting his mumbled litany of why he's totally not a dweeb, Chara, you'll see, he's the best non-dweeb in the whole entire world, and-

"What?" He says, blinking suspiciously damp eyes at you. You flap the page at him, showing him the blue scribbles.

"This is your awesome level," you say. "You're still a dweeb, but-" You shrug. He beams at you.

"I knew I was awesome," he says smugly. You can't help what you do next.

You tackle him.

* * *

 "Thou shalt not suffer a demon to live," your mother says, eyeing you for what must be the hundredth time. You fidget and stare resolutely at the ground, knowing the only way you'll ever interrupt her tirade is to ensure that she can no longer see your eyes- the sinful marker of everything she insists to be true.

It's not like you can  _help_ your eyes. Truthfully, if you look really hard in the mirror, they actually look kind of brownish. But they're definitely red any other way you slice it, and to your religious fundie parents (especially your shitty mom), that means only one thing. You're a demon. You were sent to torment them (or make them repent? They're never too clear on what they believe), and you must be treated accordingly.

At least the diatribe is a passive punishment. Sure, you could do without the neighbors also thinking you're hellspawn but it's not the belt and it's  _definitely_ not the storage shed. You can live with angry words and ear pinches when she's particularly vexed. You don't even know what you  _did_ this time. If you actually did anything at all besides have the sheer audacity to exist in her presence.

"Come on," she says. Her fingers sink into the flesh of your upper arm and you're towed away, stumbling over your feet because you don't move fast enough to suit her. You  _can't_ move fast enough, not when she's in  _this_ mood. Not when she'd rather leave you behind.

"You have to behave," she hisses, spit flying from her lips. You mentally cringe as flecks hit your face, but you know better than to wipe them away just yet unless you want a quick backhand across the cheek. She doesn't care if her rings cut you either.

"Yes, Mother," you say dully. Your fingers spasm uselessly at your sides, itching to press into her trachea or shove her into the nearest wall, like she's done to you so many times before. Perhaps she can see some of that frustrated anger in your eyes because she backhands you anyway, throbbing pain blooming across the left side of your face.

"You walked into a door," she says, smirking like her 'excuse' is somehow funny. Knowing it's not worth it in the end (but maybe it is right now), you lift your head, eyes bright and angry and so very, very red.

"Gee, I didn't know my door was named Mom," you say. You don't even care when she goes white and then red all over and drags you away. You spend the next three days in the storage shed and all you can do is laugh and laugh and laugh.

* * *

When you come inside, Frisk fusses over your hands. It burns to admit Sans did an...adequate job treating them. They set you up on the couch with a shit ton of pillows, two blankets, and the TV remote. You like having the remote because it makes Flowey mad.

"You only watch baby channels," he insists, round flower face drawn in an angry frown.

"You must be confusing me with Frisk," you inform him.

_Hey!_ Frisk protests, but they look like they're blushing, and you know it's true. They like watching all the kid shows, the really cutesy ones where nothing bad ever  _really_ happens and it's all wrapped up by the ending credits. You  _want_ to find the most violent show you can, especially if it's bloody, but Sans just  _looks_ at you, and you can practically hear Mom scolding you already.

"Jurassic Park it is then," you say grumpily, hiding the remote in your pillows, so it's harder to change the channel unless someone's willing to walk over to the TV. The only one who might is Frisk. Flowey really can't and Sans is too lazy. You don't think Jurassic Park is too scary for Frisk.

You've seen the movie before, so it's easier to let your mind wander while you watch it. You don't understand what Sans's deal is. Why he helped you. Why he's slouched in the armchair, watching a movie with you. Maybe it's Frisk's presence now, but he didn't  _have_ to come get you outside. You obviously weren't trying to run away. And when you hurt yourself, he could have just gotten Frisk or Mom. Instead,  _he_ used the first aid kit. He  _helped_ you. He  _never_ helps you. You don't get it. He's left you alone since you came home from the hospital, what's changed?

You know you shouldn't have said the 'brother killer' comment. Not in this timeline. Not in this  _life_. But you want to know what his deal is-

You thump your fist against your thigh in frustration, then freeze when everyone turns to look at you.

"Heh," you say weakly. "Sorry."

The T Rex roars on screen and you watch it almost dispassionately as it leans over and eats the lawyer. Stupid lawyer. He deserved it, you think. He left the kids in the car to die. The kids in the movie don't deserve to die, even if the youngest is kind of annoying.  _You_ deserve it, though. You know that as well as you know your own name. You haven't hurt anyone in this timeline, but you still remember the dust on your hands. You still remember the feel of your knife, hefting its weight and testing the sharp edge against your jeans.

_Shit_. You nearly shout it and have to bite down on your bottom lip as hard as you can to avoid making a sound. Your knife. Where is it? You never had it this timeline. Frisk never picked it up and when you found yourself shoved into your own body, your pockets were empty. It has to be under Mt. Ebott somewhere. Doesn't it?

You  _need_ your knife. It's- it's the only thing that's  _yours_ beside the locket that's never left your neck. (You don't know what happened to Azzy's. If Flowey is hiding it in his pot, he's certainly not telling anyone. You can't blame him.) It feels wrong not to have it, like something's missing and you can't get it back. You don't see how you can. Mom wouldn't let you wander back to Mt. Ebott. Sans could shortcut you there (if you trusted him at all, which you don't), but there's no way he'd agree if he knew why. He'd think you want to finish what you started. That you're just waiting until everyone's guard is down.

It's not true, but how do you explain it? A knife shouldn't be a comfort object, like a fuzzy striped sweater, but it is to you. It's one of the only constants you've ever had in your life- through so many timelines, you can't count them- and you want it back.

No matter what it takes.

* * *

Pollen tickles your nose, making you sneeze heartily. Golden flowers surround you. Frisk's body aches from the fall (an unfortunate consequence of true resets, you've discovered). You know your own body is moldering somewhere beneath the flowers, but you push that thought of your mind before Frisk can scrunch their nose and call you morbid. You're not morbid, you're just practical. What's wrong with that?

_So Flowey should show up in a minute,_ you tell Frisk, relinquishing control of the body as they stand up and dust off their knees.  _That should be fun._

_He won't remember,_ Frisk says confidently, although you can still hear the slight waver in their voice, like they aren't actually sure about that.

_I fucking hope not,_ you tell them. You don't want the remnants of your brother to remember you going crazy and dusting most of the underground. You don't want him to remember the blank look in your eyes, the knife dangling between your fingers. The thick trail of dust winding behind you.

No, you definitely don't want him to remember that.

_It will be fine,_ Frisk reassures you, just as your brother's familiar face pops up, framed by large golden petals.

"Howdy!" He says, as snarky as ever. You don't know how Frisk ever took that as genuine. "I'm Flowey. Flowey the Flower."

You internally sag in relief and let Frisk handle the rest. You don't think even this soulless version of Azzy would be able to greet you like nothing happened if he remembered anything.

You almost don't even notice when your mom shows up to save you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends this bit. On to the next bit.


End file.
